


Will You Leave Them Stunned and Stuttering?

by Sandrene09



Category: Smosh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrene09/pseuds/Sandrene09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“So what kind of agreement do you guys have? What are you?” Melanie asks, an eyebrow raised.</em>
  <br/><em>Ian shrugs. “Friends? Boyfriends? Whatever’s in between? I don’t really know, man, it’s a little complicated.”</em>
  <br/><em>Melanie hums under her breath, thoughtful, before nodding to herself. “So fuckbuddies, then.”</em>
</p>
<p>An AU where Anthony is a famous actor, Ian is the scriptwriter who’s been pining for ages, and Melanie is the friend everyone wants to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will You Leave Them Stunned and Stuttering?

**Author's Note:**

> A repost of my fic. This can be found on my lj and on my tumblr.
> 
> Title taken from OK Go's "Invincible"

Upon hindsight, he _really_ should have known it would be a bad idea.

The dance floor is a writhing mass of hot, sweaty bodies moving to the rhythm of the latest pop songs. Bright, colorful strobes of light cut across darkness as they make their way across the dance floor. Someone is dancing behind Ian, hips moving back and forth in a fast beat, and Ian—

—is kissing the lead actor of their newly-commissioned television show like a man desperate for water after an eternity in the desert, hips grinding against the other man’s—though whether it’s because of the fast music or because of the hardness in his pants, he doesn’t quite know. All rational thought has fled his mind—all he knows is that it feels good, right here, kissing the hell out of _the_ Anthony Padilla, famous actor and beautiful, _beautiful_ man. His hands are everywhere, touching everything he can touch, a part of him fearing that Anthony will disappear if his hands aren’t on him even though he knows that will not happen.

Between shared breaths and deep kisses, he manages to gasp out, “your place or mine?”

 Anthony sounds absolutely _wrecked_ , his voice low and rough, when he says, “mine.”

Goosebumps appear on Ian’s skin when he hears Anthony’s voice, guttural. Ian imagines he can just come from the way Anthony says _mine_ , imagines he can just ride the waves of orgasm merely by imagining that it’s him Anthony’s talking about when he says _mine_.

He’s drunk, he knows. He knows it from the way everything just moves a little more than they should, from the way his head is spinning. He wants to say that if he were stone cold sober, he wouldn’t be fantasizing about kissing _the_ Anthony Padilla, but he knows he can’t quite say that, not even if he was drugged and nothing in the world made sense anymore. He’s had this attraction to Anthony since _forever_ —he just hadn’t acted on it because he always thought Anthony was straight. Ian can’t deny that Anthony’s a little out of his league as well. Now that he has sufficient liquid courage though, he is not afraid to touch and take, to please and be pleased.

Anthony grabs his hand and walks out of the club, Ian in tow. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ian thinks they should probably say goodbye to the rest of their coworkers first, but the thought is abandoned in favor of thinking about whether or not he still has those condoms in his wallet.

Outside, the air is cool on Ian’s skin. His head clears a little, and he realizes neither of them can drive.

“Hey,” he says, his voice slurring a bit. “We can’t drive.”

Anthony looks at him, blinking twice before nodding. With how much Anthony drank, Ian isn’t surprised that it took a few seconds for Anthony to understand what he was saying.

Anthony puts his hoodie up and flags a taxi, one hand still holding Ian’s. Ian is a little cold now, and he finds that he wants to hug Anthony and share body heat with him. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he enters the taxi and waits for Anthony to enter as well so they can kiss again. Ian likes the kissing—Anthony tastes of cranberries, and he smells nice.

When Ian kisses Anthony, Anthony kisses back. His hands sear Ian’s skin as he puts them under the thin shirt Ian is wearing. Ian tilts his neck, moaning softly as Anthony sucks on the junction of his neck and shoulder.

After a few moments, Anthony stops, panting. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, and Ian nods. He’s never been surer of anything in his life. He wants this—he had always wanted this. Anthony didn’t have to ask.

Anthony probably isn’t satisfied with Ian’s nod because after a few more seconds, he says, “tell me,” his voice soft and pleading.

“I want this.” Ian’s voice is rough. “I really, _really_ want this.”

Anthony tells the driver his address, quick but precise, his voice unwavering, before putting one hand behind Ian’s neck and kissing him. Ian’s lips part under the assault, a moan escaping his lips.

They get to Anthony’s apartment complex too soon for Ian’s liking. He doesn’t complain, though, because in a few minutes he knows they’ll be able to continue this in Anthony’s _bed_.

He watches Anthony practically throw a few too many bills in the driver’s direction before closing the door and walking, his hand holding Ian’s.

The doorman opens the glass doors, and Anthony walks inside. The writer in Ian thinks that Anthony has the ability to just walk into a room and fill it with his presence without even trying; the man in Ian just thinks about where the elevator is so they can get to Anthony’s as fast as possible.

Not too soon, they’re in Anthony’s apartment, or rather, _penthouse_. If Ian wasn’t as turned on as he is right now, he probably would have paid more attention to the clean, sleek lines of Anthony’s living space—all glass and stainless steel and chrome-plated fixtures—but right now, he pays absolutely no attention to anything _but_ Anthony and the way he feels under Ian’s hands and lips.

They don’t make it to the bed.

They make it as far as Anthony’s black leather couch, refusing to walk any further. Ian lies on the couch and Anthony lies on top of him, and soon enough, their clothes are scattered on the floor. It feels too hot and it feels like the heat isn’t enough and Ian doesn’t want to stop doing this. He is drunk on tequila and he is drunk on Anthony and he doesn’t want to stop touching every bit of Anthony he can touch.

He wants this. He always has, and he thinks he always will.

Ian’s cock is hard against his stomach, and when Anthony moves against him, he moans and stops looking at where Anthony’s dick slides against him, choosing to just lean his head back on the armrest. Every nerve ending feels just that bit more responsive, his skin sensitive to Anthony’s touches. When Anthony bends his head to suck on Ian’s collarbone, Ian has to bite his lip to stop himself from screaming.

After a few more minutes, Ian realizes that he can’t _not_ watch. He looks at Anthony, looks at the sweat dripping from his shoulders, and thinks that the moonlight streaming from Anthony’s glass wall makes him look that much more beautiful.

Anthony looks _ethereal_.

When Ian comes, it isn’t too long before Anthony comes as well, the penthouse filling with groans and moans. Anthony bends his head so his and Ian’s foreheads are touching, and he says, “if we sleep here, we’ll be uncomfortable tomorrow.”

Ian doesn’t want to move. He wants to sleep here, on Anthony’s couch, with Anthony lying on top of him. His eyelids feel like there are dead weights attached to them. He honestly doesn’t think he’ll be able to make it to Anthony’s bed without collapsing on the way there.

He opens his eyes when he feels Anthony’s weight leave him. He makes grabby hands, wanting Anthony to just lie back on top of him. It feels cold without him.

Anthony laughs softly when he sees Ian’s hands reaching for him. He returns quickly, wiping the mess on Ian’s stomach with his shirt, before helping Ian stand up.

By some miracle, they reach the bed. Ian collapses on the bed, too tired to even get under the covers, and Anthony walks to the other side of the bed, getting under the covers before rolling towards Ian and putting an arm around him.

Ian falls asleep to the feeling of Anthony’s arm around his waist.

-.-.-.-

The sun isn’t even up in the sky when Ian opens his eyes.

There is warmth against his back, but the rest of him feels cold—the result of choosing to just collapse on the bed instead of getting under the covers before going to sleep.

Even though his head is pounding, he knows who’s lying behind him, still deep in sleep. He wants to fall back to sleep, wants to let Anthony’s steady breaths calm him, but he doesn’t give in.

He knows that when Anthony wakes, they’ll have an awkward talk. Anthony will probably tell him not to say anything to the media—not that he would, otherwise, it’s just that Anthony is the kind to take precaution—and when Ian promises not to mention anything, Anthony will probably try to kick him out of the penthouse in the nicest way possible.

Ian doesn’t want to be there when Anthony wakes.

He doesn’t want to be there when Anthony realizes that instead of picking up someone hot and famous at the party, he picked Ian instead, who, even though he’s the head scriptwriter, is still _just_ a scriptwriter.

Anthony Padilla is _way_ out of his league, and he would prefer not to be there when Anthony realizes that.

With a heavy heart—and a pounding head—Ian carefully removes Anthony’s arm from its position across his stomach. He slips out of bed slowly, not wanting to wake Anthony in the process. Ian knows the talk would just be more awkward if Anthony woke up to him leaving.

Ian finds his clothes scattered in the living room and a pad of paper on the coffee table. He writes _“Don’t worry, I won’t tell_ ” quickly, making sure his handwriting is legible, before walking back to the bedroom and putting the piece of paper on the nightstand.

After a moment’s hesitation, he writes _“We should do this again sometime, if you’re up to it”_. Ian puts a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol he found in Anthony’s kitchen drawer on the nightstand, near his note, before he walks away.

He leaves the penthouse quickly, stepping into the elevator silently.

-.-.-.-

When Ian next sees Anthony, he tenses.

He’s seated in front of his laptop in his bigger-than-usual cubicle when he looks up, sees the cast of _Behind the Flag_ , and blushes to the roots of his hair. He tenses when he sees Anthony, barely stopping himself from running away when Anthony looks up and their eyes meet.

Anthony stops walking, tension radiating from him. He’s probably still wary of him, Ian thinks with a bitter taste in his mouth, and even though Ian is kind of offended that Anthony thinks he can’t keep a promise, he also kind of understands why Anthony is the way he is.

After a few seconds, it occurs to Ian that he should probably stop making eye contact with the one man who doesn’t want to see him, so he looks back down to his laptop, where a brand new script is being written. He knows there is no point in trying to continue writing—his concentration’s been ripped to pieces—so instead, he stares at his laptop instead, stares and stares and stares until the words become blurry.

When he looks up, Anthony is no longer there. It’s just as well—if he was still there and Ian accidentally made eye contact with him _again_ , well. It’s just better for everyone this way.

Look, Ian is aware that he just possibly ruined things between him and Anthony—professionally speaking, of course. It’s not like it’s his fault—if his memory serves him right, they were _both_ kissing each other and they _both_ came—and it’s not like he meant for this to happen. It’s not just Anthony who’s affected by the whole thing as well—Ian still remembers the taste of Anthony in his mouth and the way he feels under his hands. He can _barely_ focus on anything anymore without thinking of that time they spent on Anthony’s couch.

It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since that encounter, and already, Ian wants _more_.

“Are you done yet?”

Ian looks up and sees Melanie, her normally perfectly-combed hair anything _but_. She looks deathly pale and there are bags under her eyes. Ian winces in sympathy. “Did you get some sleep?”

Melanie’s head disappears from the top of the cubicle divider, and after a few seconds, she walks into Ian’s cubicle, taking a seat by the entryway. “Not enough,” she says, her voice low. She closes her eyes and leans her head back. “I shouldn’t have tried to drink more than Joven. I have so many regrets,” she groans.

Ian chuckles as he reaches into a drawer, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol. “Here,” he says, handing Melanie the bottle of pills.

Melanie cracks one eye open. She sees the bottle and she smiles, immediately taking it. “You’re a _godsend_.”

“What can I say? I’m a blessing,” Ian says, shrugging. He takes the bottle of Tylenol when Melanie hands it back to him, putting it back in his drawer.

“I want to roll my eyes, but unfortunately, I don’t think that will help with the headache,” Melanie says matter-of-factly. She gestures toward the open file on Ian’s screen. “Are you done yet? I want to write my half of the script so I can go home early and get some rest.”

Ian looks at his screen, sighing. “I don’t think I’ll get much done today,” he confesses. “Sorry, Mel.”

“I’ll work with what you have,” Melanie says, standing up. “Email me the file. I’ll be at my desk.”

“Thanks,” Ian calls out, grateful.

“Not so loud, sheesh!” she replies from her cubicle, and Ian laughs when he remembers that Melanie—along with mostly everyone else—has a horrible hangover and is most likely sensitive to loud noise.

“I can hear you laughing. You’re a shit friend,” Melanie grumbles.

Ian doesn’t pay Melanie’s insult any mind—they’ve been friends for such a long time that insults are no longer offensive. Instead, insults have become their way of telling each other they care and that they’re there for each other.

He met Melanie five years ago, when they were part of the team of writers for _Relevance_. They’d quickly hit it off, and now, five years later, they’re still best friends. They’ve become a writing team of their own—they rarely work without the other, too used to each other’s methods and support.

Quickly, he sends Melanie the script, grateful that she offered to finish the script for him even while being bothered by a hangover.

Ian’s heart stops.

There, in his inbox, is an email from Anthony.

His heart starts beating quicker than what could be considered healthy and his palms start to sweat. Ian knows he shouldn’t be nervous—it’s probably just Anthony making sure that Ian won’t tell the media anything, after all—but he can’t stop his heart from beating double-time, can’t stop the dread that’s quickly filling him.

Ian takes a deep breath. Then, he opens the email.

_Did you really mean it?_

_-A_

Dread leaves him, replaced by confusion. What does Anthony mean?

_What do you mean?_

_-I_

Anthony’s reply is quick. Ian stops himself from hoping that Anthony’s just seated somewhere, waiting for his reply—it’s more likely that Anthony just happens to have his email open while he’s doing something else.

_You said we should do it again sometime if I’m up to it. Did you mean that?_

_-A_

His heart really shouldn’t be beating _this_ fast—it cannot possibly be healthy.

Ian types quickly, unwilling to back down from the silent challenge he knows Anthony is presenting him.

_I do. Why, do you want to meet tonight?_

_-I_

Anthony’s response is immediate.

_Are you free tonight?_

_-A_

Before Ian could hesitate, he replies.

_-I_

-.-.-.-

The whole thing starts at a party in one of the more known clubs in uptown Los Angeles, a celebration because finally, CBS picked up their first season. The writers celebrate with shots of tequila, the actors drink too much and dance too little, and the producers spend the night red from too much vodka.

Ian drinks too many shots of tequila, and on his way from the bathroom, he sees Anthony Padilla in the middle of the dance floor, sweaty. An idea— _a good one_ , in drunk-Ian’s opinion—forms in his mind, and he stalks over to Anthony, kissing the hell out of him when he finally reaches him.

To say that he is surprised when Anthony kisses him back is a gross understatement. His hands are suddenly everywhere, and Ian finds that he wants to take whatever he can from this man.

Even while drunk, he doesn’t fool himself into believing that this is more than just a one-night stand.

The night ends with Ian in Anthony’s bed, Anthony’s arm around him. They’re both tired and they’re both satisfied, and when the morning comes, Ian leaves.

Their _thing_ —whatever it is—doesn’t stop there, however.

That night, Ian takes a shower at his apartment before heading to Anthony’s. Ian spends the elevator ride consumed in his own thoughts, and when the elevator doors open, Anthony immediately pulls him outside and kisses him hard.

The elevator doors close, and Anthony pins him to it, his body a long line of heat against Ian’s. He kisses the way he acts—with all of his attention, his actions sure and precise.

Again, they don’t make it to the bed.

Instead, Anthony pins Ian against the elevator doors and takes him in his mouth, his chocolate brown eyes focused on Ian’s face all the while. Ian knows this because he never takes his eyes off Anthony, even though the urge to close his eyes is strong. He focuses on Anthony’s ruby red lips, the way they look deliciously _ravished_ , wrapped around his cock. He focuses on the way Anthony’s tongue feels against the tip of him, rough and providing just enough friction to keep Ian wanting _more_.

Ian’s not even naked, and neither is Anthony. Ian would like to think that they’re both too excited to actually make time for something as mundane as removing clothes, but he knows that it’s more likely that Anthony just wants him gone from the penthouse as fast as possible.

He doesn’t blame him. Anthony’s so far out of his league, they might as well be in different universes.

The urge to spread his legs even wider hits him with such force, it’s actually quite dizzying. Ian can’t, though—he didn’t remove his jeans fully, and they’re trapping him, stopping him from what he wants to do.

When he comes, he shouts himself hoarse. There’s no need to be worried—he knows Anthony’s place is soundproof. He’s surprised when he looks at Anthony and sees him swallow his come.

Ian has no doubt that if he could, he would have gone rock hard again from just that _one_ action.

Anthony meets his eyes, and Ian sees almost no brown, only black. Anthony’s eyes are dark with arousal, his lips ruby red from spending time wrapped around Ian’s dick, and Ian knows he’s ruined for everyone else.

With careful hands, Anthony tucks Ian’s cock back inside his briefs, standing up right after. He kisses Ian, and Ian tastes himself on Anthony’s tongue—salty and bitter. It’s actually hotter than he expected, and he lets his hands roam Anthony’s body—his arms, his shoulders, his face.

A few seconds later and Ian finds his arms pinned against the elevator doors, Anthony taking advantage of their height difference by holding Ian’s arms above his head with two hands.

It’s really a bit absurd how Ian wants to get hard again, not even a full fifteen minutes after he just came.

Anthony’s lips make their way to the side of Ian’s neck, kissing and licking and sucking the expanse of Ian’s skin, his lips discovering sensitive areas Ian wasn’t aware of, before. Ian tilts his head for easier access, moaning when Anthony’s lips reach the area _just_ between the back of his earlobe and his jawbone.

“Anthony,” he struggles to say as Anthony keeps sucking on the sensitive area. He shivers when Anthony whispers, “what is it?” his breath warm on Ian’s neck.

Ian breathes in, trying to find the courage in him to tell Anthony to relax and let Ian get him off, only to realize what a mistake he has done when he smells Anthony’s expensive aftershave, minty and masculine. He groans.

When Anthony’s lips resume sucking on Ian’s skin, he moans and remembers that _oh_ , he _was_ supposed to say something.

“Let me take care of you,”he breathes out when he catches his breath.

Anthony goes stock-still for a moment, and in that second, Ian panics, trying to figure out what he said wrong. Should he back away, now? Should he go?

He relaxes when Anthony practically melts against him and whispers, “yes. Please.”

Slowly, Anthony releases Ian’s hands from his iron grip, his hands moving downward until they’re resting on Ian’s hips. Ian unbuckles Anthony’s belt, his hands swift yet sure, and immediately lets them fall. He reaches into Anthony’s boxers and pulls out his cock, hard and red and leaking, and lets himself look, just for a little while. It’s not overly long—it’s _just_ right—but it _is_ thick. Already, Ian’s mouth waters at the thought of Anthony’s cock inside him.

Now’s not the time for that, though.

He gets Anthony to come with a few slow pulls, his thumb making sure to rub at the slit every now and then. When Anthony comes, he groans, a low guttural sound that comes from the back of his throat. Ian watches as Anthony rides the waves of orgasm, his eyes closed and his hands gripping Ian’s hips tightly, and thinks that he’s even more beautiful here, half-naked with his dick hanging out of his dark blue boxers, than in movie premieres, wearing expensive watches and even more expensive suits.

Catching his breath, Anthony lets his head fall on Ian’s shoulder.

“You should stay the night,” Anthony says after a few moments spent in silence.

Ian doesn’t know what to say. He already knows that what they’re doing is a ridiculously bad idea, and that they cannot worsen it by inviting each other to stay the night, but there is a part in him that wants to say yes to everything Anthony asks him to do.

“Yes,” he says, because he’s apparently a masochist, and soon enough, he and Anthony are naked under the sheets, Anthony’s arm around him as they both sleep.

Ian _does_ stay the night, but he doesn’t stay and wait for Anthony to wake up. Instead, he finds out that Anthony sleeps like the dead as he slips out from under Anthony’s arm.

He leaves before the sun even appears in the Los Angeles skyline.

-.-.-.-

Melanie’s eyes are wide when she exclaims, “what?”

Ian quickly makes shushing motion by pressing a finger to his lips.

“Sorry,” she meekly says. After a few seconds, she hits Ian upside the head.

“What was that for?” Ian asks, wincing in pain.

“For not telling me sooner!” Melanie says, crossing her arms. “Honestly, Ian. We’ve been best friends for a long time.”

Rolling his eyes, Ian glances at the printed script in his hands before tossing it on his desk. He sits up straight and puts his right ankle on top of his left knee. “It hasn’t even been going on for very long, Mel. The first time was just the day before yesterday.”

Melanie shrugs, leaning against the cubicle’s blue wall divider. “Still. I mean, you’ve had a crush on this guy for so long, you’d think you’d tell me you had sex with the guy just a minute after you’re finished.”

It’s true. He has had a crush on Anthony since four years ago, when he got commissioned to write six episodes of _Assassins_. Anthony was part of the main cast, and Ian vividly remembers making time to watch the shoot—to watch Anthony in his element.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Ian says, red tainting his cheeks.

Melanie’s laugh is loud and carefree enough to send a dozen or so crew members standing up from their seats in their respective cubicles, trying to see where the noise had come from. Ian raises his eyebrows at Melanie.

She has the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry,” she says, and immediately, heads disappear from above wall dividers.

“So what kind of agreement do you guys have? What are you?” Melanie asks, an eyebrow raised.

Ian shrugs. “Friends? Boyfriends? Whatever’s in between? I don’t really know, man, it’s a little complicated.”

Melanie hums under her breath, thoughtful, before nodding to herself. “So fuckbuddies, then.”

It’s not the _friendliest_ term, but Ian supposes it’s the most accurate one. “I think so,” he says slowly, still a little unsure. “We’ve only done it twice, though, so I don’t want to presume.”

Laughing, Melanie shakes her head. “Ian,” she says when she’s caught her breath, “there isn’t a level you need to pass or something. This isn’t a game. Calling him a _fuckbuddy_ isn’t an achievement you get after having sex with the guy a certain number of times.”

The blush on Ian’s cheeks reddens even more. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to call it being ‘friends with benefits’ instead?”

“You’re not friends,” Melanie says.

Ian sighs.

-.-.-.-

Apparently, because this is his life now, Melanie is a shit friend.

Ian is seated near the glass windows of the coffee shop across the street, enjoying his strawberry milkshake, when Mari sits down beside him, an eyebrow raised.

He takes one look at her and groans. He knows she knows.

“Melanie told you, didn’t she?” he asks, afraid of the answer even though he _already knows_ what Mari’s answer’s going to be.

Mari nods before putting her green tea on the table before them. “She said she had your permission to tell me.”

The thing is that Ian doesn’t know. The whole conversation he had with Melanie is a blur in his head, something he just wants to forget until the day he dies, and he remembers nothing but Melanie saying “fuckbuddies” and “you’re not friends”.

He also remembers nodding at anything Melanie said after, too busy being consumed in his own thoughts.

Damn it.

Ian sighs. “What do you want to know?”

“Nothing,” Mari says, shaking her head.

Ian gives her his _are you kidding me_ look, unimpressed.

Mari raises her hands in a defensive pose. “I’m serious! I don’t want to know anything!” she exclaims. “Calm your nonexistent tits. Geez.”

Ian groans. “Since you know, I’m guessing Sohinki knows. Since he knows, he probably told Joven, and Joven probably told David.”

Mari blinks once, twice, three times, before nodding.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Look, if it worries you that much, I’ll make sure that no one else knows about it,” Mari says, shrugging. Ian watches her get her cup of tea from the table and blow on it for a few seconds before taking a small sip.

“I wouldn’t be worried if it was just me,” Ian says, putting his milkshake on the table. “It’s just that An— _his_ reputation is at stake, here.”

Mari nods as she puts her cup back on the table. “I understand. We all do, actually. Don’t worry too much.”

“Mari, you’re a make-up artist. You deal with the actors. If you say just _one_ word about this, it’s going to be dangerous for him. Sohinki’s a camera operator—he can’t talk during shooting. David’s a sound editor and Joven’s an editor—they don’t work closely with the cast. I’m not really worried about them.”

“It will be fine.” Mari waves her hand in a motion that Ian thinks is meant to say “don’t worry too much”.

Ian sighs before taking a sip of his milkshake. He finds that it doesn’t taste as good when he has friends around talking to him about Anthony.

Mari quirks her lips in an almost-smile. “If I were him, I would date you in a _heartbeat_.”

“Not again,” he groans. “We’ve had this conversation a hundred times.”

She shrugs. “I’m serious! I mean, you’re not friends or anything, but the first thing you thought about when you found out that we knew was Anthony,” she says, lowering her voice so nearby patrons wouldn’t hear their conversation. “You’re more concerned for him than you should be, and I think that’s sweet.”

Of course Mari would think it’s _sweet_. Ian thinks it’s more along the lines of _pathetic_ , really.

“Thanks,” he says instead, because what else can he say?

-.-.-.-

It becomes _familiar_ , as time passes by.

By now, Ian knows how to make Anthony scream. He knows where Anthony is most sensitive, which part to kiss if he wants their time together to last. His mind is filled with information about Anthony—how he loves his hair being pulled on, how his nipples are sensitive.

It’s not just _those_ kinds of information Ian remembers, though. His mind is also filled with other things, like how Anthony prefers his coffee with a shit-ton of sugar despite trying to eat healthy, or how Anthony sleeps like the dead.

Anthony’s always kind enough to offer breakfast the next morning. Sometimes, Ian stays. Sometimes, he doesn’t. Always, he tries to remember as much as he can of the time he spends with Anthony.

They never have sex in Anthony’s bedroom. It’s partly because sometimes, they’re too far gone to actually care about making it there, but it’s mostly because Ian tries his best to stop Anthony from pulling him into the bedroom.

The thing is that Anthony’s bedroom is _his_ space, and Ian doesn’t want to intrude. Don’t get him wrong, the penthouse is _gorgeous_ with its modern design and its expensive fixtures, but all the rooms combined cannot quite compare to Anthony’s bedroom, with its soft bed and even softer sheets.

Despite the beauty of Anthony’s place, Ian has to believe that Anthony’s bedroom is the most beautiful of all the rooms, simply because it’s the _coziest_ and homiest of them all.

And Ian doesn’t think he belongs there, in Anthony’s one private space in a world that does its best to uncover as much about Anthony as it can.

Slowly, they get to know each other a little more through short conversations before and after sex. Anthony learns about Ian’s dog Daisy and his guinea pig Charlie, and Ian meets Pip, Anthony’s cat.

They’re not yet _friends with benefits_ material, and they’re certainly _not_ friends, but Ian likes to think that they’re getting there. Of course, it might just be wishful thinking on his part, but there’s nothing wrong with being a little optimistic.

Is there?

-.-.-.-

Anthony rubs a tired hand down his face. “Oh. Hey, Ian.”

Ian steps out of the elevator. “The doorman let me in.”

He’s been to Anthony’s place so many times that all the doormen know him. It’s actually kind of _sad_ , if he thinks about it, because all the doormen probably think that he and Anthony are together. Ian can’t tell them otherwise because it would be pretty weird if he just came up to them one day and just tell them out of the blue, not to mention that there’s no harm in letting them think it.

He’s pathetic. He knows that. That’s why he tries not to think about the entire thing.

“You called me a while ago,” Ian says, following Anthony into the kitchen. The kitchen is immaculately clean, all white tiles and aluminum appliances. Ian can smell something cooking in the kitchen, and his stomach grumbles, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten since lunch.

Anthony smiles at him, but it’s not the usual bright one he always has in front of the cameras or the genuine one he flashes Ian when they’re having simple conversation. It’s tired, a little sad, and a little forced. Ian finds that he doesn’t want to see it on Anthony’s face again, ever.

“Sorry,” Anthony says, regret coloring his tone. “I don’t know why I called you. I’m honestly really tired.”

Ian pastes a smile on his face. “That’s okay,” he tries to say with as much enthusiasm as he can. “I’ll just leave now and let you rest.”

“No.” Anthony clears his throat. “I mean, you can stay if you want to. I made you go all this way, after all. Are you hungry?”

Ian needs to shake his head and go. He needs to leave the penthouse, needs to go back to his own apartment and eat alone. He needs to forget Anthony’s hopeful face and his smile and _everything_ he remembers about him.

He needs to stop himself from getting more attached than he already is.

Needs are different from _wants_ , though, and there’s nothing Ian can do but nod. “Starving, actually,” he says.

The heart wants what it wants, he supposes.

Anthony shoots him a bright smile before he directs his focus back on the stove where a pot sits. Ian sits down at a small dining table meant for four people that he knows costs more than it should and looks as Anthony moves confidently in his own kitchen, hands sure and steady as they take bottles of spice and various kitchen utensils.

He looks at _home_ here—peaceful. It’s nothing compared to the Anthony he sees talking to the media or the Anthony who poses for pictures on the red carpet, and Ian feels grateful— _blessed_ , even—that he gets to see this, this part of Anthony only few get to see.

It’s entirely possible that he’s more into Anthony than he should be, given their arrangement, but it’s so hard to remember that when all he wants to do is walk towards Anthony and put his arms around him as he tries to look over Anthony’s shoulder to find out what he’s cooking.

If Melanie were here, Ian is sure she would have smacked him upside the head by now.

“What are you cooking?” asks Ian as he tries to distract himself from his thoughts.

“Pesto and sizzling tofu,” Anthony answers.

Ian nods. “Sounds delicious,” he offers.

Anthony looks over his shoulder—at Ian—briefly, and says, “it is. My mom taught me this recipe.”

It’s another piece of information Ian knows he will keep in his mind for a long time.

After a few more minutes, Ian helps Anthony with the food. He carefully gets plates from a cabinet and neatly arranges them on the table.

Truth be told, Ian is surprised by how seamlessly they move around the kitchen. He grabs the plates and Anthony grabs utensils. He puts pasta in a bowl and Anthony puts the sauce.

It’s actually kind of domestic. Mari would even call it _sweet_. Ian loves it, of course, because their silence is a comfortable one, one that is borne between people who enjoy each other’s company. As much as he loves it, though, he loves eating across Anthony even more—the way it feels natural to just make light conversation in between bites.

“So,” Anthony says when he’s finished eating. “How would you rate the meal?”

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he gives Anthony a thumbs-up. “It’s good. I’d rate it 20 out of 22 cubes of tofu.”

Surprised, Anthony laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. Ian knows that the sound of Anthony’s laugh just bumped to number two of his favorite sounds, just slightly behind the noises Anthony makes during sex.

“That,” Anthony says when he’s caught his breath, “doesn’t even make sense.”

Ian shrugs. “It does to me,” he says, smiling.

He helps Anthony wash the dishes and put away the leftovers after a few more minutes of conversation, and later—much, _much_ , later—he kneels in front of Anthony and starts mouthing at his hard on through his boxers as Anthony closes his eyes and leans his head on the back of the couch.

It’s a pretty good night.

-.-.-.-

It’s another late night at the office—Melanie and Ian are used those things by now that it’s no longer as big a deal as it used to be before. Yes, they still get annoyed at producers who complain about every single thing about the script and yes, they still hate impossible-to-meet deadlines set for rewriting the _entire_ script, but it’s no longer something they complain about.

Instead, they shrug and work in their respective cubicles, looking over the notes some of the producers had written in the margins.

Everything’s silent for a long while until Ian’s phone vibrates.

_Are you free tonight?_

_-A_

Ian feels the hot curl of disappointment in his belly.

_No, sorry. We have to work on the script tonight. The producers only gave us until tomorrow. :/_

_-I_

When no reply comes after a few seconds, Ian sighs and redirects his focus on the laptop screen before him. He tiredly rubs his eyes, trying to get his attention back to writing.

He just wants to sleep, really.

Fighting a yawn, he shakes his head and rereads what he has written so far. It’s not up to his usual quality of work, he knows, but it will have to do.

His phone vibrates.

_I’m sorry. Do you want me to bring you some coffee?_

_-A_

Ian smiles. Anthony’s sweet, really, but he doesn’t have to.

_You don’t have to. I’ll be fine. Enjoy your night. :)_

_-I_

It’s only a few seconds before Anthony’s reply comes.

_I know I don’t have to. I want to, though. I’ll be there in ten._

_-A_

Okay, so it’s pretty much established that Ian’s attracted to Anthony—has been, for a long time, actually—but _this_? It’s different. There’s a pleasant sensation curling in his belly and he’s grinning ridiculously widely and it’s different because it makes him feel like he can pretend, even if only for a few minutes, that there’s something _more_ between the two of them. He feels like he can pretend that Anthony’s something more than just an actor who’s so very out of his league.

He feels like he can pretend that he’s _more_ than just a fuckbuddy to Anthony.

It’s a dangerous road to walk on—he really shouldn’t be giving himself hope when there’s _nothing_ to hope for. If Melanie knew, she would shake her head woefully, bemoaning the loss of Ian’s common sense.

Hell, if he still had his common sense, he would shake his head woefully _with_ her.

He shakes his head and looks back at the script. Anthony is _horrible_ for his concentration.

As a writer, Ian possesses the ability to get lost in the act of typing out words to form sentences and paragraphs, to be calmed by the sound of keys clacking as his fingers quickly move on the keyboard. He quickly loses himself in the act of writing—something he’s been doing for as long as he can remember—at least until he hears someone approach his cubicle.

Ian looks over his shoulder, surprised to find Anthony leaning against the entryway, two cups of coffee in hand.

Anthony clears his throat. “I said I’d come here, didn’t I?”

Ian smiles.

-.-.-.-

Ian meets Anthony on the set of _Assassins_. He has a pile of printed scripts in his hands as he walks down the hallway and a million and one ideas on how to kill the producers without leaving evidence when he slams into another body.

The printed scripts fall to the floor, and so does he.

“I’m so sorry,” the man before him says, his chocolate brown eyes expressing genuine sincerity. He holds a hand out for Ian to take, and Ian does, relishing the warm point of contact between the two of them.

“It’s okay,” Ian answers. He bends down to pick up some of the scripts, smiling to himself when he sees the man doing the same. “I’m Ian.”

The man smiles at him as he hands Ian his printed scripts. “I’m Anthony.”

Ian nods to himself. Not wanting to let the comfortable silence between them turn awkward, Ian smiles at him and says, “well it’s nice to meet you. I have to go though, so I guess I’ll see you around.”

Anthony smiles at him, and Ian walks away.

All thoughts of murder are gone from his thoughts when he walks into the producers’ office, but a ridiculously huge grin is still on his face.

He _might_ have scared the producers a little.

-.-.-.-

The moment Ian walks into his cubicle to find Mari and Melanie seated side by side, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, he knows— _just knows_ —he’s fucked.

Sighing, he enters the cubicle slowly, putting his laptop bag on his desk. “What do you want to know?”

“Nothing,” the both of them say at the same time, and if Ian wasn’t already scared, he’d be scared now.

Ian knows that showing fear is a weakness—he’s been friends with Mari and Melanie for a long enough time to know _that_ —so he raises an eyebrow instead, not giving in to the urge to kneel and beg for mercy.

Mari glances at Melanie before directing her gaze back to Ian. “He gave you a cup of coffee last night.”

Ian slowly sits down. “Yes?”

Melanie shrugs. “So what’s up with that?”

“Nothing’s up with that,” he says, shaking his head. “He asked me to come over and I said I couldn’t because we had to work, so he offered to bring me coffee. It’s nothing.”

“It’s _everything_!” Melanie says, excitement evident on her face. Her eyes are wide with delight when she says, “you’re friends now!”

“To be honest, I don’t really feel like we’re friends,” Ian says, and it’s true. He doesn’t feel like they’re friends, even though he wants so very badly for them to _be_ friends. “He’s just nice, that’s all.”

Mari shakes her head woefully. Melanie sighs.

“What?” he asks defensively.

“Nothing,” Mari says, standing up. “It’s just that we’re both sorry for you.”

Ian furrows his eyebrows. “Why?”

Melanie takes a rolled-up tabloid from her bag and gives it to Ian before standing up and exiting the cubicle.

Ian is alone when he sees the headline.

_Actor Anthony Padilla dating co-star Kalel Cullen? Pictures and more inside!_

Okay, here’s the thing: Ian doesn’t hate Kalel. He doesn’t have any kind of opinion towards her, to be honest, doesn’t have any kind of clue as to what kind of person she is.

Right now though, as he opens the tabloid for some kind of _proof_ that it’s true, he gets this hot coil of jealousy in his belly and he realizes that he _wants_ to hate her with all of his being. For a moment, _he does_ —hate her, that is—but after a few seconds pass, the boiling rage in him cools down to a simmer when he realizes that he is in absolutely _no position_ to hate her.

Why would he?

He isn’t somebody special in Anthony’s life—he’s a little bit of rough on the side, nothing more. There’s no point in being jealous because he was never really in a relationship with Anthony, no matter how much he wants it to happen.

Besides, Kalel is _perfect_ for Anthony. Ian is smart enough to know when he’s beaten, and in this case, he knows when he’s beaten _completely_. Kalel is an actress who has been featured on the front page of _Elle_ and _Vogue_ —there’s _no way_ Ian can beat that. She’s the perfect match for Anthony, really, with her stunning beauty and her acting awards. Hell, they’re already together _onscreen_ , playing characters who are dating one another—they’ve already won _two_ different _best new television relationship_ polls in the eight months since _Behind the Flag_ started showing on screen—Ian wouldn’t be surprised if they actually made the transition from _onscreen relationship_ to reality, to be perfectly honest.

He even hears that Kalel has a cat as well, damn it.

They’re so perfect together that Ian kind of wants to cry. He’s known for so long that Anthony’s out of his league, but it has never _hurt_ this much. He wants to curl up and forget everyone for a little while.

It’s different—realizing he’s in love with Anthony and realizing that Anthony isn’t in love with him. It’s not like he expected Anthony to just _magically_ be attracted to him, but to be fair, it’s not like he expected Anthony to start dating someone else, as well.

What hurts even more is that the article says that the pictures were taken yesterday. That whole _coffee_ thing? It turns out that it _is_ just the kind action Anthony thoughtfully did, like Ian has been saying this entire time, instead of the _something more_ he was hoping it would be.

Ian hates—just _hates_ —himself for hoping, for being optimistic when he’s tried to tell himself that there’s nothing to be optimistic about.

So yes, he wants to hate Kalel, but he finds that he can’t.

He hates himself instead.

-.-.-.-

The cursor seems to mock Ian as it blinks at a steady, repeating beat.

Ian loves his job, really, but right now, he thinks he’s just too tired and too _numb_ to get anything even remotely good done. He wants to go home, lie on his bed, and rethink his decisions.

However, he can’t do that without finishing the script for the season finale.

He doesn’t want to do it, but he has to. This has always been what their team has intended for Anthony and Kalel’s characters, and it isn’t fair for everyone if Ian changes the whole dynamic just because he’s too fucking _gone_ to actually acknowledge that what he and Anthony had was just an _arrangement_ and nothing more.

The office is dark—everyone else has gone home. Ian’s the only scriptwriter in the building. The only light in the floor is the one from his desk lamp and the slight glare of his laptop screen. It’s fitting, the writer part of him thinks, that he’s surrounded by darkness while he’s trying to get the will to type down the words he knows Anthony’s character _has_ to say by the season finale.

It’s slightly poetic, and Ian only gets poetic when he’s sad.

He takes a deep breath and places his hands back on his laptop, his fingers poised and ready to hit keys.

_I love you. How can you not know that? I never doubted that, and I must have done something seriously wrong to make you ever doubt that._

It hurts, but he continues.

_I am so in love with you that sometimes, it actually hurts. Do you know that when we’re together, I ask myself why you’re even with me? It’s true. You’re so goddamn perfect that I don’t even know how I managed to even get near you._

Being a writer, Ian knows the keys by heart. He knows where certain letters are located, knows what to press when he has a specific sentence in mind.

It hurts too much to look, so he doesn’t. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and types.

_I am in love with you, and only you._

When he’s done, Ian quickly closes the file and starts packing his laptop up. He turns the light off and leaves the building, walking in complete darkness.

He’s poetic when he’s sad, yes, but right now he’s just too tired to think.

-.-.-.-

Anthony doesn’t ask him to come over for a long time. Ian likes to think it’s because of the hectic schedule they have—season finale’s coming up, and there are suddenly a hell of a lot meetings to be in and adjustments to make—but he knows it’s because Anthony’s seeing Kalel now. Anthony didn’t tell him directly, of course—they’re not _friends_ , after all—but Ian knows he’s dating her through the many tabloids that say the same thing he’s thinking.

So when Anthony sends him a text right after a meeting, he is more than a little surprised.

_Hey. Wanna meet later?_

_-A_

Ian makes sure he’s somewhere at least semi-private before he responds.

_Sure, why not?_

_-I_

Instead of feeling happy, something else makes its presence known in the vicinity of his chest when Anthony replies.

_8 pm. My place._

_-A_

Ian pockets his phone as he walks away, towards his cubicle. His gut churns in shame and guilt makes his heart heavy. What is he doing? Anthony’s seeing someone else. Ian is a lot of things, but he isn’t someone who condones cheating.

He must seriously be reaching an all new low if he’s actually considering this.

Look, Ian’s not stupid. He knows that Anthony has a reputation to protect, and no matter how friendly California has been lately to the LGBT community, Ian knows it’s one thing for an actor to say he’s supportive of the LGBT community and quite another to be a part of it.

It’s just one of the many reasons why he’s a secret no one’s supposed to find out about, much less Kalel. The chances of people finding out about him are significantly higher if he risks _this_ —if he still goes through with the whole thing—now, when Anthony’s dating Kalel.

Ian chuckles self-deprecatingly. Even while contemplating _infidelity_ , it’s still Anthony he’s thinking about and it’s _still_ Anthony he’s trying to protect.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

That night, at precisely eight in the evening, he goes home.

He doesn’t sleep until it’s ten.

-.-.-.-

Ian does his best to hide from Anthony the next day. It’s not exactly a hard thing to do—it’s the last day of shooting, and Anthony, being one of the main actors, barely has time for a chat.

He knows Anthony is confused—he has said as much in the many texts he had sent Ian the night before—and he knows that if Anthony grabs hold of him for even _a second_ , he’ll start asking questions.

And Ian doesn’t know if he’ll be able to answer the questions.

A few weeks ago, an invitation was emailed to him—an offer to write five episodes for the hit ABC show _Yellow Brick_. Back then, he was still torn as to whether he should or shouldn’t accept the offer. Now, however, Ian doesn’t see himself doing anything other than accepting the offer and flying to their offices in downtown New York.

He’s packing his laptop up when he senses her presence. Slowly, he zips the bag, then stands up straight and turns around. “Hey,” he says, smiling.

Melanie smiles at him as well, but it’s nothing like her usual dazzling one. This is a sad smile, and Ian knows Melanie just wants to hug him right now. “So you’re leaving, huh?”

He nods. “I’ll still come back if CBS approves season two,” he says, trying to assure her.

“I know that,” Melanie says, her voice soft. “You created the whole concept of this show. Of course you’ll be back for season two.”

A few seconds pass, then Melanie walks over to him and engulfs him in a hug. Ian hugs her back, knowing that he will miss her when he’s in New York.

Ian closes his eyes. “It’s been so long since I worked without you,” he whispers.

Melanie stays silent for a little while before pulling back and looking at Ian, her gaze searching. “How badly do you want to go?” she whispers as if afraid to taint the silence with sound.

Tears are starting to well in his eyes. Ian refuses to let them fall down his cheeks. “How badly does he want me to stay?” he says, his voice sounding weak to his ears.

No words are needed to be spoken for each of them to know that Anthony doesn’t care if he stays or goes.

Melanie nods slowly. “Need me to help?”

Ian nods, taking his laptop bag from his desk. “Feed Daisy and Charlie, okay?”

“I will,” Melanie says.

When Ian leaves his cubicle, he kisses Melanie on the cheek and says, “thank you.”

There’s nothing else to be done, really. He had taken care of everything last night, when he couldn’t sleep. His letter regarding his short leave had been sent to personnel, clothes had been packed, and his flight had been booked.

He should be going home. There’s nothing else to do here.

His feet take him somewhere else though, and too soon, he finds himself in one of the studios, near enough to watch Anthony act—near enough to watch Anthony _be_ in his element—but far enough to not be noticed by the actors.

Without even hearing a line, he already knows what scene it is.

It’s Anthony and Kalel’s scene. It’s _the_ scene.

Why did Ian think it would be a good idea to see Anthony one last time, again?

Watching Anthony hold Kalel’s hands in his, a sincere expression on his face—it’s more painful than it has any right to be, Ian thinks. He thought writing the scene was hard, but in reality, writing the lines is no match to hearing Anthony say them to Kalel.

“I love you. How can you not know that? I never doubted that, and I must have done something seriously wrong to make you ever doubt that,” Anthony says, pain crossing his features. “I am so in love with you that sometimes, it actually hurts. Do you know that when we’re together, I ask myself why you’re even with me? It’s true. You’re so goddamn perfect that I don’t even know how I managed to even get near you.”

Ian watches Anthony take a deep breath. “I am in love with you, and only you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession, something intimate and something Ian shouldn’t be hearing despite the fact that the words came from _him_.

So he leaves.

He walks away, farther and farther until he can’t hear Kalel and Anthony’s voices.

He doesn’t look back.

-.-.-.-

New York is beautiful.

Ian’s been there before, of course, but it’s a different experience when all he wants to do is go back home to California. Everything’s a tragedy wrapped in sunshine and smiles in the famous New York City.

In his spare time, Ian writes more poems than he can count. Poetry is easier to come to him when he’s all alone in an overpopulated city, he finds out. Some of the loneliness, he tries to convey to Melanie on their many conversations, but some, he lets out through poetry—through rhythm and rhyme and ink on paper.

It’s been too long since he’s last written anything by hand.

One day, he receives a call from Melanie. There is joy in her voice and excitement is keeping her from making much sense at first, but when she calms down enough to tell him what’s going on, Ian smiles.

“They’re keeping us for season two!” she shouts, and it’s actually a little too loud against his ear, but he finds that he can’t quite remove the phone from his ear.

He smiles, happy. “That’s awesome!” he says, letting his excitement seep into the tone of his voice.

“When we got the news that CBS chose not to continue _Access_ , we honestly got a bit nervous because they had one of the highest ratings,” says Melanie, and she still sounds breathless with excitement, “but then they announced that we’re in! We’re in, Ian!”

Ian’s grin is wide. “That’s amazing, Mel.”

“We’re having drinks tomorrow night,” she says, her voice steadier. “You should come.”

The smile on Ian’s face fades fast. “Mel,” he says softly, pleading, “you know I can’t.”

Melanie sighs. Choosing not to argue, she says, “when are you coming back?”

Ian sits down on the couch. “In a few weeks.”

“Anthony…he’s asking about you—where you’ve gone, why you’re not answering his texts.”

Closing his eyes, Ian leans his head on the couch cushions. “Who did he ask?”

“Me,” Melanie replies.

“What did you tell him?”

Ian can practically see Melanie shrug. “The truth,” she says. “Why haven’t you been answering his texts?”

“I don’t see why I should,” he says.

“Stop running,” Melanie says, quick to the point, before hanging up.

Melanie’s right, of course—she always is. He _is_ running, trying to avoid whatever reminds him of Anthony, and to be honest, he’s _tired_. He wants to stop running and just rest, wants to just go back home without feeling a stab of pain in his chest.

It’s not Anthony’s fault. Ian shouldn’t be punishing him—because that’s what he’s doing, right? Punishing him? Anthony, being the kind person that he is, probably thinks he did something wrong, when really, he’s not to blame—because of something he didn’t do.

It’s time to mend some broken bridges, he thinks.

_Hey. Sorry for not replying. I’m fine, don’t worry. It’s not your fault, either. I just had some things to think about. Don’t worry too much._

_-I_

He’s surprised when his phone vibrates not even two minutes later.

_How are you?_

_-A_

Ian thinks about what he should say for a few seconds. Should he tell Anthony that he’s okay?

In the end, he opts for the truth.

_I’m not yet okay, but I’m getting there._

And though it hurts, he adds:

_How’s Kalel? :)_

_-I_

Ian lies down on the couch, knowing that the texting session will last long.

_Why are you asking about her?_

_-A_

He frowns. What?

_Nothing. I just thought I’d be polite…?_

_-I_

_Oh. She’s fine. Why, do you want her number?_

_-A_

Now, Ian is even _more_ confused.

_Why would I ask for her number?_

_-I_

_I don’t know. You seem interested, though._

_-A_

_I’m not._

_-I_

_That’s good to know. When are you coming back?_

_-A_

Ian smiles.

_You’ll know when I’m there, I guess._

_-I_

-.-.-.-

The club is too loud and too crowded.

Ian is grinning widely when he sees Mari and Melanie drinking shots of vodka. He doesn’t even try to compete with the noise in the club—he just waits for them to see him.

“You’re home early!” Melanie exclaims, a bit more than tipsy if the way she’s unsteady on her feet is any indication.

Mari grins at him. She’s not yet drunk, but she’s getting there. “You should go see Anthony!”

Ian smiles, nodding. He really should.

After half an hour of trying to locate Anthony in the crowded club, he sighs in relief when he sees Anthony alone in a booth, a bottle of beer in his hand. “Hey,” he greets, taking a seat beside Anthony.

Anthony’s eyes widen in surprise. “You’re here,” he states.

Ian nods slowly. “Yes, I’m here.”

Seeing Anthony again makes Ian _want_. There is an urge to just pull Anthony in and start kissing him, to just go to Anthony’s place and suck him dry, to wring out moans he hasn’t heard in a long time.

He stops himself, but only just.

Anthony looks like he can’t quite believe his eyes. “You’re really here,” he breathes out, and in a second, he has Ian’s face in his hands and Ian’s lips under his, mouth opening as Anthony’s tongue asks for permission for entrance.

The kiss is hot and desperate, and not too soon, Ian is almost lying on the seat, Anthony lying on top of him with his mouth on Ian’s neck. Ian’s hands are roaming Anthony’s back, wanting to touch as much as he can.

“Wait,” Ian breathes out.

Anthony immediately stops kissing his neck, but he doesn’t leave him, doesn’t get up and sit straight and try to look composed and not like he had just been kissing another man. “What is it?” he says in between pants.

As much as Ian wants to continue down this road, he knows he shouldn’t. “What about Kalel?” he asks, not making any effort to move back into a sitting position.

“What about her?” Anthony asks, and Ian wants to tear his hair out in frustration. Is Anthony really going to make him spell it out for him?

“What do you mean, ‘what about her’? You’re dating her!” he exclaims, frustration coloring his tone.

Anthony furrows his eyebrows, confused. “Uhh, what do you mean? I’m not dating her.”

Ian’s heart—his traitorous, _traitorous_ heart—leaps and starts beating in a speed that isn’t quite healthy. “You aren’t?” he asks, his voice small.

Anthony sits up, and Ian does the same. Running his fingers through his hair, he says, “wait, did you think Kalel and I were together?”

Slowly, Ian nods.

“We’re not. How could we be together when I was so distracted by you?” he asks, chuckling to himself.

Ian’s heart beats even faster. The club and the people has faded—all that remains now is this booth and Anthony. “Distracted?”

Anthony lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes on the beer bottle. “I have been since _Assassins_ , actually. When you came home with me that night, I swear I felt like I was on cloud nine. And then I woke up and you weren’t there, and my heart honestly broke.”

For the first time in a long time, Ian is wordless. He doesn’t know what to say or how to react—right now, he’s stunned, because one thing’s for sure, and it’s that _surprised_ doesn’t even hope to cover what the hell he’s feeling right now, seated beside Anthony.

“And then the whole thing started,” continues Anthony, “and I wanted so very badly to have even just moments with you that I agreed to the whole _sex with no strings attached_ thing even though I wanted something more.”

Ian finds his voice. “I’ve liked you since _Assassins_ too. I honestly thought you and Kalel were together. There was a time when you didn’t call me for months, and all the tabloids were saying that you were dating her.”

Anthony grins. “Don’t ever listen to the tabloids.”

Ian smiles. “I know that now.”

“Kalel told me that you weren’t as into it as I was,” he confesses, regret making itself known on his face, “and at the time, I thought that was true. I mean, you almost always left before breakfast, and you just didn’t seem interested. She said I should probably leave you alone for a while, and I agreed.”

Shaking his head, Ian frowns. “It’s not that. It’s never that.”

“People have told me I slept like the dead,” Anthony says.

Ian nods. “I’ve seen you sleep. I can confirm that.”

“I actually got a lot more sensitive,” Anthony says softly, sadness coloring his tone. “I became more sensitive to you leaving, did you know that?”

Ian swallows. “No,” he replies. “I thought we had to keep everything really secret because you were afraid I’d be horrible to your reputation if the media found out.”

Anthony shakes his head. “I don’t give a damn what they say about you.”

Ian knows that now. He chooses not to say it out loud.

After a few seconds of silence, Anthony speaks.

“So,” Anthony says slowly, unsure, “are we good?”

Ian nods.

“Can I kiss you now?”

Ian smiles.

-.-.-.-

That night, they have sex in Anthony’s bedroom for the first time.

Ian stays for breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Smosh and I don’t make money from this. I also don’t own Invincible by OK Go.


End file.
